Shadows of the Night
by Blue-eyed Fox
Summary: Ran is haunted by the memories of his past when the Eighth Count Crawford enters his cursed life.
1. Ghosts’ of the Past

**Title:** Shadows in the Night

**Author:** Blue-eyed Fox

**Pairing:** Crawford/Ran, past Yohji/Ran and one-sided Schuldig/Ran

**Genre:** Romance/Mystery/Suspense, AU

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Weiss Kreuz, Brad Crawford would be downright chasing Ran Fujimiya's ass all over Tokyo until he marks it as his own. The same disclaimer will apply on the following chapters to come.

**Warning:** Non-beta-ed. Yaoi, enough said. This fic is based on the story A Lady of the Night.

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**Chapter 1: ** Ghosts' of the Past

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Ran felt his gaze on him all the way throughout the performance that night, slightly blinded by the bright lamps surrounding the stage and proscenium, Ran did not catch a glimpse of him until the final scene. All but the five stage lamps were doused, and those burned opposite him, illuminating the spectacle that had drawn a full house since the play opened five weeks ago. The man with the intense gaze would be the only one of the almost exclusively male audience whose eyes were not on the nude-appearing female casts shrugging off a ghost's white shroud, but were drawn to the dim corner where Ran stood.

Ran turned and scanned the seats to the left of the stage. The Flower Theatre was one of the popular theatres near Covent Garden. It also served as an inn with stables and a small café to entertain guests and those who wished to kill time. There were boxes for higher admission with velvet lined armchairs. With chandeliers to be raised or lowered to shed constant light upon the audience, that could at times, become too raucous for comfort.

Ran saw him almost immediately and stumbled backwards as if pushed by an invisible hand. His mind spun, whirling, sending him back in time close to 120 years, and he was staring at the man he had sworn to punish, but had escaped his vengeance: the insufferable Fifth Count Crawford.

"_An eerie likeness, isn't it?"_

Ran heard the voice, soft yet unassailable instant attention—Schuldig, his mentor, his eternal enemy, his only friend. With garnered effort, he closed his mind to Schuldig. Ran did not want his intrusion, not now while his mind was still in a maelstrom of confusion and his body trembled worse than that of the "revived" ghost on the stage. It had been so long since he'd experienced such fervent emotion running through his veins; he could not be certain whether he was shaking from the emotion itself, the wrath invoked by Crawford's face, or from the liberation that he was still somehow capable of human emotions.

Somehow, Ran made it through the applause, the curtsies and the smiles. Somehow, he had found his way back to his dressing room. As always, it was dimly lit, soothing his eyes after the bright stage lights. And of course, Schuldig was there. In his peerless style, lounging on the Cleopatra in front of his dressing table, a dark austere male with ginger-red hair with dark, jade-green eyes soulless eyes. His golden pale fingers clasped the goblet of ruby liquid. At Ran's entrance, he raised the goblet in salute before bringing it to bloodless lips.

Ran trembled, but when he did not smell the heavy metallic scent of blood he despised, he squeezed beside Schuldig on the Cleopatra and faced the mirror. He saw himself, not as clearly as he would before but it was still the old Ran he had known for almost three centuries. As happened every time he gazed at the mirror relief flooded him and so did _fear_. He would swear that his image had paled two shades lighter since he'd applied makeup before the performance. Soon he would be like Schuldig, completely without a reflection on the mirror.

"Not soon enough for me," Schuldig replied at his train of thought. "You need to feed, meine liebe."

"You saw him."

"Crawford's great-grandson? Yes I did."

With a soft wash cloth, Ran wiped the lipstick off his lips. _His great-grandson. Of course._ The shock of seeing that hated visage had so numbed his mind that he had imagined the criminal himself watching him so closely. But since it was not—couldn't possibly be—the Fourth Count himself, so why the interest in him?

"The ring," Schuldig said.

Ran looked at his right ring finger, where the amethyst, the size of a quail's egg, was set with diamonds glowed against his pale skin.

A knock fell on the door. Omi, his young helper and sort of butler poked his honey-brown head into the dressing room.

"A gentleman to see you, Ran." Omi had once confused using the title of 'Miss' and 'Monsieur' whenever he was about to address him. Ran pitied the poor boy and decided to drop the title and just have Omi call him by his given name. Before Ran could turn or respond, the man whose face had stunned him so badly, stepped inside the dressing room, he saw him in the dappled mirror: tall, dark like Schuldig, but without Schuldig's austerity that bordered on death's door.

"Good evening." His voice was deep and beautifully modulated; his bows were courteous, neither mockingly low nor arrogantly curt, as so often practiced by most gentlemen thrusting their uninvited presence upon an actor. "My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, but I would beg a few moments of your time."

Ran could barely nod, as once more the heat of rage engulfed him. Neither could he deny the man. Something in Ran demanded that he speak to him. After all, his anger and hate were irrational. The man standing by the door was not the man who destroyed the only human he loved since he lost his family at the beginning of his immoral existence.

"I am Crawford," he said, inadvertently twisting the blade in the still-fresh wound in Ran's heart.

Schuldig rose and stood some distance away from the mirror. "Schuldig, at your service, my lord."

Crawford acknowledged the other man's greeting with a nod, then returned his gaze to Ran, still facing the mirror, still holding the crimson-stained cloth.

"Brad Crawford," he elaborated, "Eighth Count Crawford. May I know your name?"

Not an unreasonable request, since Ran was billed only as "The Divine Ran." Ran chuckled silently, yes, he was indeed _divine_. With his ivory skin, lavender eyes, thin, cherry kissed lips and lithe, slender limbs and with his long crimson locks, he could very well be mistaken as one of the noble's daughters or such.

"Ran Fujimiya" He picked up the silver brush to smooth his unbound hair. "And, no." he added, "You need not use any formalities around that name. Addressing me as Fujimiya will do."

"Why do you wish to speak to Ran?" Schuldig said.

Crawford's gaze was on Ran's hand wielding the hairbrush. He took a step closer. "Monsieur," His voice was crisp, almost sharp. "How did you come by that ring?"

_How...How...?_

The question minced in his mind, breaking down the barriers he had built around the bitter memory. He saw Schoen, on the ground, struggling with Crawford. He heard Crawford's laugh and Schoen's sobs. He saw—

"Leave! And do not dare show your face here ever again!" Ran rose violently that the cushioned bench he had moved to sit in front of the mirror, toppled.

"My apologies, Monsieur Fujimiya, I had no intention to distress you. In truth, I fail to see how I did with a simple question I posed. Unless, of course...unless you came by that ring dishonestly." Crawford's dark brows knitted in a frown.

Red-hot, violent fury engulfed Ran's well-being. No longer could he distinguish between present and past, he only saw Crawford face and only knew the urge to have his blood at last. The heavy, silver-back brush dropped with a clatter as Ran flew at him. He looked surprised, caught Ran by the shoulders and held him off. Then cold fingers touched Ran's cheek and neck. Schuldig's voice, smooth and cool, extinguished the fire of his rage.

"Ran, Ran mien liebe. Restrain yourself."

Ran stumbled back, sick with shame...and fear. It had happened! He was turning into a monster! He heard Schuldig talking with Crawford but did not take in what the men were saying. Only when Crawford bowed, with an unreadable look towards Ran, did Schuldig's last words to the retreating count penetrated Ran's mind.

"You have my word, my lord; I shall pass on your apology and plead your cause. I do not doubt that Ran will be pleased to speak with you at the moment." Schuldig said.

Nausea racked Ran's body. See Crawford and turn into a monster again? He snatched a shawl from one of the wall hooks just as the door closed with a soft click. Ran sank to the floor and was violently ill. The last thing he remembered was Schuldig rushing to his side before the world around him faded black. 

* * *

The faint rattle of china woke Ran from his dreamless slumber. The bedchamber of his lodgings was dark, but from the door to his living room came a shard of light. He heard Omi's soft humming, smelled the flavorful aroma of soup, and knew it was time to rise.

_How did you come by that ring?_

Ran's breath caught as the memory, clear and sharp, of Crawford's visit to his dressing room returned and caught him unaware. And with it came the memory of the monstrous reaction. He could not stir in bed.

"Good morning Ran! Rise and shine!" Omi called from the living room. "I made chowder with onions, potatoes, leeks and mushrooms just the way you like it."

Ran rose from the bed and performed his morning rituals as he slipped into a gown. It had become a habit for Ran to wear female clothes for the past centuries, besides, he already wore female clothing ever since his mother and other female relatives started doting on him, saying that he rather be off as girl since he looked like one. His father of course along with his uncles couldn't argue with the women so they just let it be.

Omi then entered the bedroom holding a basket in one hand. "Ran, I'm going to the market, it's going to close soon. Shall I pull drapes of the window back a bit?"

"No, not yet Omi, thank you, probably when you return. And will you kindly draw the sitting room curtains on your way out?" Ran said fondly. Omi knew what Ran was and kept his lips shut. He never questioned Ran nor did he fear Ran for what he is and Ran was forever thankful for the boy and promised to watch and take care of Omi as the boy did over him.

With soft clatter of brass rings, the thickly lined velvet curtains banished what little daylight the three small windows had allowed into the living room. Then the outer door closed with a soft click before the key turned in the lock.

Ran smiled. He was rather grateful when Omi replaced his old maid Sakura fourteen years ago. Ran remembered the day his path crossed with Omi.

**Flashback**

He had found Omi as a child in the streets of London. He saw the fear and a shard of hope in the eyes of the child. He went to him in the small alleyway and crouched low to meet Omi's eyes as the boy scuttled to the wall. Ran saw the fear in the boy's eyes. He knew instantly that the boy had experienced the hardships of living in the streets with no roof to cover his trembling form. Ran stretched out his gloved hand to the boy and offered and promised the comforts of a home.

"Come, I won't hurt you I promise." Ran smiled.

Omi looked at the outstretched hand and flicked back to the gentle face smiling fondly at him. Omi was hesitant at first but with much courage, took the hand. He found the gentleness of the touch and the firm and steady grip comforting.

"Come, let's get you out of those rubbish clothes and something to eat. I'm sure you're starving. What's your name young man?"

Omi found Ran's mirth filled voice comforting and soon, all his fears were being washed down the drain.

"Omi."

"Well then Omi, I'm Ran Fujimiya. Just call me Ran." Ran said with a smile as the two of them walked hand in hand.

**End Flashback**

As Ran entered the living room, now lit with four five candles on the candelabra, he once more heard the key. The outside door opened and heard Omi's voice.

"Please go right in, my lord. You'll find ran in the living room straight ahead."

"Omi!" Ran rushed into the small, dark hall, colliding with a tall, solid shape just as the door to his lodgings was locked again.

Firm, strong hands steadied him.

"I do beg your pardon Monsieur, I had no intention of barging in like this but your manservant—"

"My assistant," Ran corrected, instantly recognizing the deep, modulated voice and dreading the return of his uncontrollable rage, the bloodlust, of the previous night, "is too trusting. I should scold and ground him when he returns."

"But you won't." His voice held confidence. "You're not that cruel."

"You know nothing about me, my lord." Ran retorted as he turned and took a few short steps into the living room. Ran could send him on his way. He should. Or he could rather face his demons. Ran hesitated for only an instant. "Since you're here, you might as well come in, I suppose."

"Thank you."

Ran darted a look at Crawford as he followed him into the living room. It was impossible to see his features clearly, but, perhaps, it was for the best, kit was safer not to see his face too sharply—the face that held the power to tear down Ran's defenses and plunge him into purgatory.

Crawford was walking slowly, almost hesitantly, touching the back of the sofa as he approached him.

"Pardon the darkness of the room, Lord Crawford; since I bask in the light, so to speak, most of my nights, I prefer the dimness during the day."

"Nothing to worry about, Monsieur Fujimiya, I, too, prefer—" Crawford's gaze fell on the low table, where Omi had placed Ran's lunch. "But I am interrupting your meal. My apologies, I should leave immediately. Please do tell me when it will be convenient to receive me."

Last night, even a little while ago when memory of the previous night had returned, Ran would have replied, "Never." But something was different. Perhaps, at last, reason prevailed within his judgment. Ran motioned Crawford to a chair.

"I...I lost my temper last night. I need to prove—never mind. I promise I shall do my best not to fly...into another fit." Ran said.

"I provoked you Monsieur, and I do beg your pardon. What I said, more or less accusing you of theft was inexcusable." Crawford professed.

Ran did not correct him. He could not. How can he explain what had happened to him, that sudden transformation. If Schuldig had not stopped him...Ran banished the dark thoughts.

"Perhaps you'll join me in a bowl of soup, my lord?" Ran offered.

"Thank you."

"Then if you shall excuse me for a moment." Ran excused himself as he fled to the small kitchen adjoining Omi's chambers. Ran did not understand himself. Undoubtedly, it was reassuring to know that he was no longer ruled purely by emotion where Crawford was concerned. But that did not mean he must share a meal with him, for heaven's sake!

"_You need him Ran."_

The soup bowl slipped from his slender fingers as Schuldig's voice invaded his thoughts. Ran stared at the shards scattered on the peach tiles of the kitchen.

"_Discover what he wants. What he knows about the ring and stay calm Ran. Be friendly, and remember, you need to feed soon!"_

Nausea threatened Ran's well-being. How he detested the mere word "feed," let alone the deed itself. Ran's hands clenched, eyes shutting against the light coming from the open kitchen window, Ran gathered his strength and thoughts.

"_Don't bother me now Schuldig!"_

"_I am guiding you, my love, protecting you. If I left you to your own devices, you'd be long doomed. _

It was indisputable, but t was because of Schuldig in the first place that he was doomed.

"_I will not tolerate any interference with Crawford. I am locking you out Schuldig."_

"_No! You must not be alone with him."_

Ran decided not to reply, but closed his eyes even tighter. It had taken him decades to master, and still required willpower and concentration to put up the mental block that would stop Schuldig from invading his thoughts. But Ran could do it, even when he fought with him. Breathing slowly, Ran channeled his energy until he had deflected his determined assault, and the barrier in his mind was impenetrable.

He was trembling from the effort when he opened his eyes. Taking another bowl from the cupboard, he set it on a plate, picked up a spoon and returned to the living room.

Crawford was still standing.

"I heard a crash. Are you all right?" Crawford asked.

"Quite, thank you. I'm merely clumsy."

"I did not know what would be the greater mistake—rushing to your assistance or remaining here. I hope I made the right decision?" Crawford gave a small smile.

"That depends on what you wished to achieve, my lord." Aya replied.

"I did not wish to be shown the door. My sense of consequence still has not recovered from last night."

"My lord? You sound amused, I fail to see what was so funny about last night?"

"What is a man to do but laugh at himself when he acts like a fool? And what can be more foolish than barging in on you for the second time?"

Ran was not convinced that he spoke the truth but allowed Crawford to seat him, then started ladling out the soup while he took the chair opposite his. His movements were slow and cautious, not as if hampered by the darkness of the room but as if he was in pain.

"Did I hurt you when I ran into you in the hall?" Aya asked in concern.

"No, not at all monsieur." Crawford answered quickly. Too quickly.

"I did. I am sorry. My elbow I believe, I seem to remember poking your side."

"I assure you Monsieur Fujimiya, it isn't your fault. It is just a small memento from the Peninsular War that acts up now and then. Please let us not mention it again."

Ran nodded. "You have no trouble pronouncing my surname even with the Japanese accent."

"I heard it pronounced when I traveled to Japan a few years past." Crawford sipped a spoonful of soup, but is gaze remained on Ran. "I went to Kyoto and spent a few nights in a town called Fujima."

Ran's heart pounded. Kyoto was the town of his birth, the place where he lived until his marriage. Now he did regret the sparse candlelight. An aching head and burning eyes were a small price to pay to see his expression. Crawford's voice was casual, but the way he kept looking at Ran so steadily imbued his words with special meaning. But surely, Ran's imagination was running away with him. Crawford could not know anything. It was mere coincidence that he had been to Ran's birthplace. A mere coincidence and nothing more...

"I had the privilege to stay at the _Koneko_ Inn. Parts of it are three hundred years old, as old as the castle perched above the town" Crawford said.

The castle, his home, if he had been there with his husband and daughter when the attack came—

Ran felt cold all over as the terror of his last moments as a mortal threatened to overcome him. Forcing his mind to stay immersed on the present, he too, took a spoonful of soup, which he could barely swallow.

"Monsieur Fujimiya? Are you all right? Have I once again said something to distress you?"

"Dear me, no!" Ran gave a gurgle of laughter. He was an actor after all and a very good one too. "I am fascinated, that is all. Imagine stating in a three-hundred-year-old inn! I can only hope that the beds weren't quite that ancient."

"That would have been quite a torture, indeed. Straw beds are not my preference. Fortunately, the ancient parts of the inn are the wooden beams and frames, which are kept in good shape and the onsen overlooking a lake."

"Ah, that's all right then. Would you like a glass of wine, my lord?" Ran inquired.

"No, thank you. It was a rogue band of mountain bandits, you know, who almost destroyed the inn—most of the town actually—and the castle."

"Indeed," Ran said as he tried to shut out the clash of katanas, the screams of the people and the cries of the horses. The mountain bandits were allies against the neighboring Daimyo. The attack had taken the town and the castle by surprise. "Perhaps a cup of tea, then?"

"No, thank you." Crawford nonchalantly stirred his soup, and looked at Ran again. "The town was rebuilt, but not the castle. Do you know what the castle was called, Monsieur Fujimiya?"

Why would he not abandon the topic, the god damned man!

"Dare I guess?" Ran kept an airy tone. "Seated above the town of Fujima, I'd say the castle was castle was called Fujimawara. Or perhaps—" Ran's hands clenched, there was no reason to continue, but something impalpable made him continue. "Perhaps, _Shiro_ Fujiwara?"

"Shiro Fujiwara it is. Monsieur Fujimiya, why do I have the feeling that you are sparring with me?"

"_I_ am sparring with you?" Arrogance overrode caution. "If you believe that I am familiar with the History of a Japanese town or castle, why don't you say so?"

"Well Monsieur Fujimiya? Are you?"

The challenge hung between them and it was impossible to ignore. Ran sat up straighter. "I am indeed! And I'll thank you to stop tossing my name in such an annoying manner."

"My apologies, monsieur. Are you a descendant—"

Ran rose up from his seat, forcing Crawford to follow suit. "My lord, I must ask you to leave now."

"Why are you afraid of my questions?"

"Do not be ridiculous. I am merely pressed for time." Ran lied.

"Just tell me about the ring then." Heat engulfed Ran as Crawford stepped towards him. "At least permit me to take a close look at it."

"I am not wearing it, perhaps some other time?"

"But where, how did you come by it? And—"

A heavy knock on the entrance door cut Crawford's questions.

"Ran, my love! Let me in!" Schuldig called.

Torn between relief and annoyance, Ran admitted his mentor.

"I happened to meet Omi on his way to the market," Schuldig said. "He told me that you're here _alone_ with Crawford.

Ran knew fully well that he would not be out at this time of day to "happen" across Omi had he not closed his mind to him.

"And how dark you have it! Scandalous, my love! Have you no regard for your good reputation?"

"Whatever are you talking about Schuldig?" Ran said impatiently. "If an actor of the Flower Theatre has a reputation at all, it certainly does not qualify as 'good.' "

Schuldig faced Crawford. "My lord, I gave my word that you would speak with Ran in time, but you presume too much by forcing this conversation. You will be so kind to leave now. And in the future, if Ran is agreeable to see you again, any meeting will be arranged through me."

The two men, both tall and dark, measured each other.

"Are you the man's guardian, sir?" Crawford said.

"Indeed, and I'll thank you to remember it."

"Nonsense!" snapped Ran. "I am well past the age requiring a guardian or chaperone for that matter."

"In that case, Monsieur Fuji—I beg your pardon monsieur. Monsieur Ran, I would like to invite you to dinner after your performance tonight. And if you do not wish to answer any of my questions, you only need to say so."

"Thank you, my lord. But I fear I must—"

"Decline," Schuldig cut in, taking Ran's hand and holding it possessively. "Ran is promised to me for supper. However, if he is agreeable, you may join us.

Crawford looked at Ran, and he, who had indeed been about to decline his invitation and intended never to see him again, found himself wavering. Schuldig was forever making decisions for him. It was nice, for once, to be deferred to and Crawford did promise not to interrogate him.

"My lord, I would prefer then if you would take me to dinner some other night."

"I'd be delighted Monsieur Ran. I have some urgent business, which will take me out of town for a day or two. Three at the most, you will hear from me on Friday."

"_Decline!"_ Schuldig commanded silently, gripping Ran's hand more tightly when he tried to remove it from his grasp. _"Or take me with you."_

Smiling, Ran extended his free hand to Crawford. "I have never had dinner at Leicester Square."

"Then, that is where we shall go." Crawford smiled as he took the extended hand and bowed. Ran relished the warmth of his touch, how human compared to Schuldig's, which chilled him with its iciness. Ran had a sudden, staggering need to cling to that warmth, to capture it, make it his to savor during those dark moments that were his lot for eternity. But Crawford had already released his hand and inclined his head at Schuldig. "Good day, sir."

Crawford left the living room, his movements still slow, and a little stiff. He retrieved his gloves from the hall table. But he had no hat, Ran noted as he saw him out, only a cane, which he had leaned in the corner close to the entrance.

**Note:**

I'm mixing era's here. As we all know, during the time of Queen Elizabeth, male actors took the role of the female characters in plays. Take note of the film "Shakespeare in Love". However, the timeline I'm using in the story is somewhere in between 16th to 17th century. Think of the movie, "An Interview with a Vampire."

I refrain from addressing Ran with the title 'Sir' since I don't like the sound of it and it makes Ran seem older than he appears to be, so opted for the French 'Monsieur' instead.

If any of you have watched Phantom of the Opera that is how the theatre would look like.

And yes, Crawford does not have his gift of sight. I decided to take away his powers since it will spoil everything. XD


	2. The Rivals

**- - - - - - - - - - - - - -**

**Chapter 2: **The Rivals

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Brad Crawford, Eighth Count Crawford, was no more than a few dozen paces from Ran Fujimiya's residence when he was called from the doorway of a vintner's shop.

"Brad, there you are!" His cousin Farfello Crawford, resplendent in white pantaloons and dark navy coat, walked up to him. "What a wonderful coincidence, you're just the man I wished to see." His cousin was half-Irish, half-British. He had silvery white hair with scars marring his pale skin. He had a scar running down from his left brow down to his eye. It was only by luck that he didn't go blind after he received the injury during the peninsular war.

"Wonderful, indeed," Crawford replied dryly, "since it was you who told me where to find Monsieur Fujimiya at this time of day."

"Fuji—? Ah, you're speaking of 'The Divine Ran.' Did you see him then? More importantly, did you see the ring?"

"I saw him."

Usually, Farfello had to hurry up to keep up with his cousin's long stride, but not today. However, he knew better than to refer to Crawford's slow pace, or to his cousin's use of a cane. Twirling his own, he said, "So? Are you not pleased now that you finally listened to me and attended the theatre last night? I knew it was the Crawford Amethyst the moment I laid eyes on it. I knew you'd be grateful.

Crawford raised a brow. "How much do you need, Farfello?"

"You misunderstand!" Farfello protested, doffing his hat while Crawford stopped and bowed to two matrons passing in a barouche. "I say, Brad, you really mustn't be out and about without a hat. Bad _ton_, don't you know. And Schoen says your head would ache much less if you covered it. Or if—"

"Much obliged," Crawford cut in. "You must thank Schoen for me. Her concern is most gratifying, and I shall strive to listen to her advice. Now, Farfello, how much do you need?"

"I assure you Brad, I want nothing from you." Farfello once more fell into step beside his cousin. "All I wish is for _you_ to recover what is yours. Did you see the ring?"

"Monsieur Fujimiya was not wearing it."

"Damn it all! Why did you not ask him to show it to you?"

"I'll see the ring soon enough. Besides there's no doubt in my mind that it is the ring our great-grandfather lost, and when I meet Monsieur Fujimiya again, I shall offer to purchase it from him."

"Purchase it?! Why waste your money? The ring is ours. When will you see him again?" Farfello inquired in earnest.

"We will see each other by the end of the week." Crawford answered. They had reached St. Martin's Lane and Crawford hailed an approaching hackney. "Good day, Farfello. I shall keep you appraised."

"I suppose you will be 'out of town' until then," said Farfello with a sapient look at Crawford's cane and the coach coming to a stop beside them. "Perhaps Schoen—"

"No, thank you! I'm told my pantry is overflowing with jars of your wife's restoratives."

"Just as well, I suppose. Young Brad is ailing, and Schoen is busy—"

"What's wrong?" Crawford cut in.

"Just a cough, nothing much to fret about this time."

"That's all right, then. He'll be in good hands with Schoen." Concern and love for his five-year-old namesake were probably the only sentiments he would ever have in common with Farfello's wife. She was a devoted mother—perhaps even obsessive since her first child's, little Marie's, death. And she would personally nurse her son.

Crawford climbed stiffly into the coach. "Upper Brook Street," he told the coachman, then gave Farfello a jaunty smile. "Do give Brad a hug for me and my regards to Schoen."

The smile faded as soon as the hackney started to move. His side felt hot and sticky, as if the old saber wound was opening again and his head ached unbearably. Yes, he would, indeed, be "out of town" for a while, he must count himself fortunate that Monsieur Fujimiya had not been available that evening. But see him again, he must. And would.

Crawford rested his head against the musty-smelling upholstery and closed his eyes. What an enigma the actor was proving to be, he had expected—n truth, he had no notion what to expect, but it wasn't what he had found. His mystification had nothing to do with Ran's appearance, though he couldn't be certain of that either; his lodgings were too dark. Except under bright stage lights, where Ran's features were enhanced with makeup, he had never seen Ran clearly. He was tall, a few centimeters shorter than him, but his figure was splendid, "The Divine Ran" was not a misnomer. His hair was the color of red wine. _Bordeaux_, he thought, but only daylight could confirm his estimation. He did not now the exact color of is eyes, only that they were dark; brown, perhaps, blue, or somewhere in between. His skin, when Ran gave him his hand, was soft and smooth...And what the hell did it matter?

Crawford sat up, wincing, then stared out of the coach window to judge how soon he could hide in his chamber. Nothing mattered except sleep and the quiet ministrations of the faithful Nagi, who had been his companion when they were carefree lads, his batman on the Peninsula, and now served as his valet.

The only noteworthy facts about Monsieur Ran Fujimiya he must not forget were the fact that he reacted quite strongly to any mention of the ring, and that not one had he asked _why_ he was questioning him. And no matter how good an actor he was, he could not hide his agitation when he spoke of Fujimiya, or the castle that had been destroyed by the bandits. Indeed, he was not at all what he'd expected.

- - - - - -

"What are you doing? If you see him alone, you'll blotch it." Schuldig faced Ran.

"What is there to blotch?" Now that Crawford was gone, Ran felt tired, crestfallen. "I'm not even certain that I _will_ see him again. And if I do, I may just give him the ring.

Schuldig was silent.

"Well?" Ran demanded. "Didn't you always tell me that I should forget my thirst for revenge?"

"So I did. I never imagined, however, that you would meet the very image of the fiend."

"But he is not the same man." Ran justified as he sat down and tasted a spoonful of the now cold soup. It didn't matter. He wasn't hungry anyway.

As always, Schuldig knew his thoughts. "You're never hungry," he said. "But you get tired easily, and your sensitivity to light is more pronounced. You know what that means. You have known for years."

"Schuldig, is there no alternative? No end to this...existence?" Ran looked up at him.

"Why ask?" Schuldig's voice was harsh. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated his bedchamber. "You own and have read more books on us than anyone. Or did you think I would not know?"

"No, and it was never my intention to hide the books from you. Schuldig, it's so disappointing! There is nothing definitive. There is no science, even if the work is written by a scholar, which is rare in any case. Much of what I found was written by sensation seekers are more vicious than witch hunters ever were. Some so-called 'facts' stated by them are so preposterous; I do not know whether to laugh or cry over such sickening misinterpretations."

"All I know is that you must feed more frequently than you do, or you will turn into one of the monsters that kill and maim for the sheer lust of it—as described by the sensation seekers."

"As what almost happened last night?" Ran's throat tightened.

Schuldig seemed about to speak, then shrugged and shook his head.

"And there is no reversal to this state, Schuldig? There is no way I can turn mortal again, grow old and—"

"And die?" Schuldig finished. He drew a chair close and sat down beside him. "You can die Ran. You can die by fire."

Ran was silent, remembering the inferno that had devoured the town where he was born, where he had lived until he was married to Lord Kudoh and moved into the castle with him. He had been in Fujiwara the day the bandits attacked.

"Why can't you be like me, accepting that the taste of blood is essential to our well-being? You ought to be like me. I turned you into what you are." Schuldig said.

"And I have hated you for it ever since." Ran coldly replied.

"No, Ran, you resent me at times. You would have died had I not drunk your blood and healed your wounds, and you feel guilty that you survived...and your family did not."

Again, Ran was silent. How could he call his existence survival?

Ran _had_ hated him. Of that he was certain, He had despised him. But now? Perhaps, over the years, his feelings had, indeed, mellowed to resentment. Certainly, from necessity, he had grown comfortable with Schuldig's constant presence, most of the time, at least.

"You see," Schuldig said. "I know you better that you know yourself."

"So you would like to believe."

"Admit that you hold admiration for my abilities," Schuldig coaxed. "Just think how conscientiously I contrive to shift members of our company to other theaters when they begin to question your eternal youth; and how I have moved our company from country to country, from theater to theater."

Ran raised a defined brow at Schuldig, looking scandalized at the statement.

Schuldig waved a dismissive hand. "We will move on in a month or so. Remember, instead, the admirable deeds I've performed. How I provided us with a long and distinguished line of thespian forefathers to explain the similarity in looks to an actor many years earlier.

"Yes, making me grandfather and grandson all in one. Or to what it seems to be more appropriate, making me grandmother and granddaughter altogether." A chuckle escaped him as, no doubt, Schuldig had planned. "That poor old gentleman—some _Comté pairie__ noblesse_ or other in France, was it not?"

"Switzerland."

"The looks he gave me! How we threw him into utter confusion."

"So, resentment is not all that you feel for me."

"No, of course not, perhaps you have forgotten what it is like, but there is intricacy in feelings. Why, even my husband, whom I loved deeply, could provoke me to exasperation. And I hated it when Yohji arranged a deer baiting."

"Ran," Hands pushed against his thighs, Schuldig leaned forward. "I want you to marry me."

"_Marry!_" Ran all but choked on the word. He had asked him to be his lover more than once, and Ran had refused. But marriage—

"I want to do it right, Ran. You still suffer from human emotions—more than any of us I've ever known. And for some reason, you have not shaken off the conventions and regulations governing humans. You still remember what your mother had taught you, do you not?"

"Oh, indeed." Ran savored the warmth evoked by the memories of his mother. "I remember so very well. When I turned fifteen and Yohji started to pay more attention to me, mother took me aside and said—"

"That a man, who can have his milk for free, need not buy a cow..."

"A goat, Schuldig, we only had goats and sheep. And I truly hate it when you invade my mind."

"I did not, at least not this instant. I culled that bit of information the first time I offered you to be my lover.

Schuldig reached out, clasping Ran's hands in both of his. "So, Ran, what say you? Will you marry me?"

Ran heard a strange note in Schuldig's voice. If it not had been Schuldig asking the question, he might have imagined a plea. But perhaps, even Schuldig could plead. Perhaps, he too, suffered from the destructive and overwhelming loneliness that dampened the spirit and choked all joy in life. The chill of Schuldig's skin transferred to him until he felt cold all over. Unbidden, the memory of Crawford's touch leaped to mind; such warmth.

Ran freed himself and rose. "I am sorry Schuldig. I cannot marry you."

"It's Crawford!" Schuldig's chair scrapped harshly against the floorboards as he stood. "I knew the man was nothing but trouble the moment I laid eyes on him."

"You're talking nonsense. Crawford has nothing at all to do with my decisions. Who knows, if I had survived as a widow in Fujima, I might have married again. But as it is...as I am now...I won't! I promise you, I'll never marry again."

"Then remember that promise. Make it a vow, because with Crawford, you'd find nothing but unhappiness."

- - - - - - - -

Schuldig quickly strode down Tavistock Street. Perhaps, if he hurried, he would catch up to the man. Crawford had been in pain, and slow. His lordship was injured; Schuldig had caught the faintest whiff of blood as Ran should have—would have—if he weren't so inept. Schuldig shielded his thoughts from Ran. He rarely tried to communicate with him, but with Crawford's appearance on the scene, this might change. Ran's composure was badly shaken by the man, so badly that he had not yet caught on just how much he knew about Crawford; that he had kept up with the Crawford family ever since the Fifth Count had ravished that young gypsy Ran had taken such a fancy to. Aya-chan, the wench was called. The same name as Ran's adopted daughter.

His Ran, he had made him one of them—the cursed undead, doomed to walk the earth throughout eternity. But, somehow, he had made a mistake; Ran's transformation had not been perfect.

When Crawford appeared so suddenly at the theater, Schuldig had hoped the man would be Ran's salvation. Ran's attack on Crawford had been a good sign, but it was all wrong. Ran had been in pain, in a mindless rage. If Ran had tasted Crawford's blood then, he would, indeed, have slipped into the state of the most dreaded. No, it must be done n a different way, the right way.

Oblivious to the complains of pedestrians who felt the thrust of his elbow as he pushed past them, and the curses of the drivers who had to rein in sharply as he dashed across streets, Schuldig forged on until he reached Grosvenor Square and could see down the length of Upper Brook Street. There was no sign of Crawford.

Schuldig stood and stared at the imposing building he knew to be Crawford House. At last, he turned away. It was for the best. Approaching Crawford in the street might have caused that gentleman to pay more attention to him than was desirable. Demanding admittance to Crawford House and an audience most definitely would arouse suspicion. But, for the time being, Schuldig preferred to remain in the background.

And he had better remember that the next time Ran said or did something unpredictable, which he would. Schuldig knew Ran too well not to recognize just how strongly he was drawn to Crawford. Ran might believe t was the man's courtesy, his charming manner that held him enthralled. Schuldig knew better. Crawford was human. That was what drew Ran to the man.

It had happened with the gypsy, Aya-chan. The reason was simple then: Aya-chan had reminded Ran of his and Yohji's adopted daughter. It was more difficult to see what it was about with Crawford that touched a chord in Ran, not the likeness to the Fifth Count; that could only spawn anger and disgust. But whatever it was that drew him to the Eighth Count, Ran was not for Crawford.

**Note:**

Yes! Schuldig is possessed by the green-eyed monster called jealousy! I hope that was clear in this chapter. P

And I also used the suffix –chan to avoid misunderstandings. I hope I made a few things clear here in account to relationships and others...

Feed back is highly appreciated. Thank you! Until next time my darlings!

**Glossary:**

Hackney – a horse of a compact English breed with a high leg action.

Restorative – anything capable of restoring health or vigor.


	3. Memories

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**Chapter 3:** Memories

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* * *

The moment Ran stepped out of the hat maker's establishment he knew he had made a serious mistake in venturing outside his dark lodgings on an April day. It had been overcast and gray when he left his lodgings, but while he was trying on bonnets and hats, the sun had come out. Ran felt weak and dizzy, even though his midnight blue parasol shielded him from the direct light. 

How very long Bond Street was. And where were the hackneys when one was in need of their services? He swayed, brushing against someone, and muttered an apology, then stopped. He was almost at the corner of Conduit Street. About seven or eight doors farther down was a stationer he patronized frequently. If he could make it to the shop, surely, the clerk would summon a coach for him.

The pavement beneath his feet was shifting, undulating, making every step a hazard. Schuldig had warned him more than once that he would less be able to face daylight the longer he postponed feeding, but since he hardly ever went out, except at night, he ignored him for years. Now he knew that Schuldig was correct. Or was he? What if the more frequent taste of blood would make him merely more like Schuldig? Was that what Schuldig wanted?

Why, oh why had he ventured out?

It had been vanity that drove him, pure and simple vanity, he admitted. Tomorrow was Friday, and he had awakened at noon wanting a new hat if Crawford was taking him the Piazza at Leicester Square for dinner. He had not cared about fashion in such a long time that the sudden, irresistible desire had startled him. It was such an amazingly _pleasant_ feeling. And the results of his venture had been more than satisfactory, although, at the moment, the wide box tied with string seemed to weigh as much as an iron ball.

Ran became aware of a carriage and a pair drawing to halt beside him. He knew with certainty and an immediate and very inexplicable lifting of spirits, even before he looked around, before he heard the greeting, that it was _he_.

"Monsieur Fujimiya! Good day to you, may I offer you a seat at my curricle?"

"You may indeed. And thank you for your kindness, Lord Crawford."

"You'll pardon me for not getting down, but the pair is fresh. My cousin will assist you. Monsieur Fujimiya, allow me to present Farfello Crawford."

Only now did Ran notice the second gentleman who stepped down. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance at last, Monsieur Fujimiya, you never stop in the Blue Room, and I've been waiting for weeks to tell you that I'm your most fervent admirer." Farfello doffed his hat with a flourish, and bowed low before him.

"Really?" Ran murmured, his gaze held in fascination by Farfello's waistcoat embroidered with brilliantly hued parakeets. "Please accept my gratitude for giving up your seat to me."

"My pleasure, Monsieur Fujimiya." With courtly grace, Farfello handed Ran, along with the parasol and hatbox, into the curricle. "And if you'll permit Brad a glance at your ring, I'll be more than repaid."

"The ring," Ran looked at Crawford. "We're back to that, are we?"

Crawford drove off without another word to Farfello. "I won't deny it, Monsieur Fujimiya. I still need to know how you came by the amethyst, but there is something else as well."

Crawford was looking at Ran intently and for such a length of time, Ran became alarmed. "What are you about, my lord? And please pay attention to where we're going!"

"I am. And I was correct. Your hair is the color of red wine. _Bordeaux_."

"Pay attention to the street! Look where you're driving! And slow down, you're about to run over the crossing sweep!"

"My grays know their way about town." Crawford said as he flipped a large silver coin to the urchin with the broom twice as long as he, Crawford did turn his eyes upon the road. "Shall I take you to your lodgings, or do you have other errands?"

"To my lodgings, please." Ran adjusted the hatbox at his feet. "I did not expect to see you today. Was your business completed satisfactorily, my lord?"

"Quite. And sooner than I deemed possible, which is why I called at your lodgings. Your assistant told me I would find you in Bond Street."

"How fortuitous..."

"Will you join me for dinner tonight, monsieur?"

"Never mind about what I said about what I said the last time we met with regards to addressing me. You may use my full name if you wish." Ran gripped the parasol he was holding tightly that the ornamentations of the handle cut into his palm. "I suppose you'll want to discuss the ring tonight?"

"I said I would not press you, and I won't"

"But you are determined to interrogate me at some point. So, I suppose, it might as well be tonight."

"Or, perhaps, now," With a light touch of the reins, Crawford guided his pair into Haymarket. "Then we need not spoil or dinner with a topic that is so obviously distasteful to you."

"Or we need not even take dinner together at all." Ran cut in.

"That would not be my preference, but, I promise you, it will be your decision alone."

Ran switched hands on the parasol. "And what do you wish to know, Lord Crawford?"

"To start with, Monsieur Fujimiya," Crawford said, his voice remaining light and pleasant, "why do you not demand to know what business of mine your ring could possibly be?"

Ran was glad that he was seated now, or his knees surely would have buckled. Of course he must wonder! "My lord, I have always known that the ring in my possession is the Crawford Amethyst."

Again, Crawford turned his gaze on Ran. "You puzzle me, monsieur. I did not think to get the truth from you in such a blunt and straightforward manner."

"Why not, pray tell?" Ran sat up straighter. "What _did_ you expect that I would _lie_ about the ring?"

"In a manner of speaking...yes."

"I may be an actor, my lord, but I am not a liar. At least," Ran added, "not an accomplished one."

This drew a very wry chuckle. "Truth, indeed, Monsieur Fujimiya. I noted your lack of accomplishment in that quarter when we spoke of my visit to Kyoto."

"_You_ spoke of it. I merely listened. And I did not lie! When you asked if I was familiar with the town and castle, I told you yes."

"So you did. And then you asked me to leave."

Ran had no reply to that and for a while the rode in silence. They were already in the Strand, would turn off for Tavistock Street presently. Ran was about to speak when he remembered Schuldig and willed himself to bolt the mental barrier against his intrusion.

"Lord Crawford—"

"Monsieur Fujimiya—"

They had spoken simultaneously, and simultaneously they fell silent. Ran saw they were passing Southampton Street.

"Should we not turn here?" He asked. "This is the most direct way to my lodgings. I was about to ask you if you would like to take a dish of tea with me. I am determined, you see, not to avoid your questions again. In fact, I wish to pose a few of my own."

"Sauce for the goose, Monsieur Fujimiya?"

Ran saw Somerset House looming to their right. "Where are we going?"

"I could not fail to notice that sunlight gives you discomfort, so I was planning to take you to a shady spot by the Strand Stairs. Nut that was before you invited me. Now I shall leave the decision to you." Crawford replied.

"How kind of you, and before my invitation, you meant simply to abduct me?"

"Abduct? Yes, I daresay that is what it would have amounted to if you would not agree, but I doubt it would have been a _simple_ undertaking."

Ran slanted to look at Crawford, saw that he was smiling, and felt quite unaccountably lighthearted. In the sunlight—Crawford still wore no hat—he did not look quite so much like that other Crawford. Or did he? Perhaps it was merely the smile that made him different. And the glasses he wore, his eyebrows were not forked the way the Fifth Count's were and he also had a scar. About an inch of it was visible on his left temple, but in the bright light, Ran could see it continue under the thick dark brown hair above his ear.

"Let us proceed to your shady spot, then. I doubt you have found a competent lad in Tavistock Street to mind your horses. We've turned into quite a thieves' den there, I fear, and you might have lost both the curricle and pair before you'd enjoyed your first sip of tea." Ran said.

"I shall keep that in mind when I call upon you next."

Ran had no response to this and watched in silence as Crawford guided his pair in a narrow lane leading south, to the Thames. He stopped beneath an ancient chestnut tree, already in leaf and looked splendid to look at with its white blossoms dashed with red.

Ran wrinkled his nose. "I'd forgotten how bad the river smells."

"You do not venture out much, do you, Monsieur Fujimiya?"

"Rarely. And I won't complain. It's not quite bad here as the odor around the theater. And now I smell lilacs. How delightful." Ran looked around. "I wonder where they grow."

"Will this do, then?"

"Very nicely, thank you." Shutting the parasol, Ran placed it beside the hatbox at his feet.

"The shade is dense enough?"

Ran was very aware of him, so close that their shoulders almost touched. Ran moved a little, turning sideways to look at Crawford, and found that he was facing him squarely, since he had turned as well.

"I shall not swoon, my lord, if that is what you fear.

"I did. And if you had seen yourself when I encountered you in Bond Street, you would not wonder at my concern. You looked as pale as a ghost. At least, as pale as the one you revive so dramatically in your play."

"Pale, indeed, then, since the costume consists of hose and bodice knitted of fine, bleached wool and a white shroud. And what little skin is showing is covered in white paint. But I am quite well now. So, let's get to the point."

"Certainly, though I fear the topic of the Crawford Amethyst is as discomforting to you as the topic of your sensitivity to light."

Ran's breath caught. "I'm afraid I do not quite follow you, my lord."

"No?" Crawford's gaze was probing. "Then, I must beg your pardon."

Momentarily distracted by one of the horses taking exception to a bee buzzing close to its ear, Crawford turned away from Ran.

Ran studied his profile. The strong, capable hands that the reins so lightly yet controlled the shying horse without difficulty. How different the excursion would be if their topic of discussion could be other than the ring. If they could be...friends. If...

What madness possessed Ran to entertain such notions! No, if he was in need of a friend, Schuldig would have to do.

When the bee had returned to higher altitudes and the horse quieted, Crawford said, "Monsieur Fujimiya, if you knew the ring belongs to my family, why have you not returned it? We are not very difficult to find, you know."

The ring.

"The Fifth Count Crawford," Ran said stiffly, "and, therefore, his descendants forfeited any rights to the ring."

Crawford's brow furrowed. "How? And are you saying it has been in your family ever since my great-grandfather lost it, close on 120-years ago?"

"He did not lose it, my lord. It was taken from him."

"Stolen? But then you_should_ have—"

"It was _taken_," Ran repeated, his whole body suddenly bathed in perspiration.

"Why?"

"In payment for the life he took." Ran struggled not to succumb to memories, not to allow emotion color his voice. "If he had valued his own life, then he would have been condemned to death. But he was so uncaring whether he lived or died—whether _anybody_ lived or died—that it was decided to take the only thing he did value: the ring."

That had been the gypsies' vote, and theirs had prevailed. Schuldig wanted Crawford's death. And Ran—he had wanted his blood to change him one of them. To him, there was no greater punishment.

Crawford stared at Ran. "Whose life did he take?"

"She was a young gypsy woman." Ran's voice was toneless. The ribbons on his bonnet seemed to tight all of a sudden. With unsteady fingers, he retied them. "Her name was Aya, although I preferred to call her Aya-chan."

Crawford frowned but did not speak. And Ran was glad he did not interrupt. The sorry tale must be told quickly, lest pain and anger overpower him once more, as they had done the past night he met Crawford at the theater.

"Fifth Count Crawford raped her," Ran said quickly, baldly. "Aya-chan was pledged to a young man of a related tribe. The rape not only dishonored her, but him and both tribes as well. Aya-chan killed herself."

Again, Crawford frowned. "Are you certain?"

"Of course I am certain," Ran snapped. "Aya-chan's slippers, shawl and the gold bracelet given to her by her betrothed were found atop a cliff and, when the tide receded, shreds of her skirt among the rocks below."

For a brief yet oddly reassuring instant, Crawford placed a hand atop Ran's clenched fists. "I am sorry."

After a brief silence, Crawford spoke, "It happened a long time ago, yet you are affected as if it was only yesterday, almost as if...you knew the young woman personally."

The image of Aya-chan, singing, dancing, laughing, flashed through Ran's mind. Aya-chan, of the dark auburn hair tied up and parted into two neat braids and sparkling golden brown eyes...so like Ran's adopted little daughter Aya an eternity ago. For a while, Ran had bee able to pretend that his adopted daughter had lived, that she had grown into a beautiful young woman with life, love, and happiness awaiting her.

Ran fleetingly touched the locket inside his royal blue gown, companion piece to the locket Aya-chan had worn. Ran looked at Crawford and once more saw the man who'd held the struggling girl pinned to the ground; the man who, sated and triumphant, had laughed in Ran's face when he came running to Aya-chan's aid.

Pain and rage engulfed Ran. He saw his face, so close. The hint of vein above his neck cloth, with a cry, Ran would have lunged at the man sitting beside him, but Crawford caught Ran's arms and held him fast.

"No, Ran," he said quietly. "I am not the one you seek to punish." Crawford's calmness doused the frenzy consuming Ran.

"I beg your pardon," Ran said shakily, feeling ill and not a little frightened.

Crawford released him, picking up the reins he must have dropped. "And I beg yours. Please believe that I do not deliberately set out to distress you."

Ran saw only sincerity in his gaze, and concern. But he was alright now; he could look at him and feel nothing but gratitude for his calm acceptance of her sudden rage.

"And I apologize for using your given name. I meant no disrespect, Monsieur Fujimiya. It merely seemed right at the moment."

Again, his sincerity was clear, and Ran nodded. He forced himself to ask, "Do you have any more questions, my lord?"

Crawford gave a wry chuckle. "My dear monsieur, if only you knew how many questions and how long they have plagued me!"

He steeled himself. "Then, ask away."

"Only if you are certain you are stout enough for further interrogation."

"Quite stout." Ran lied.

"Monsieur Fujimiya, how did you learn the story of the ring? Were you told—" Crawford broke off, scowling. "Damn it! I beg your pardon, monsieur, but I see the one I'm beginning to think as my nemesis. And he's approaching in a hurry. What do you wish me to do?"

Filled with apprehension, Ran turned. From the direction of Somerset Place, Schuldig came striding toward them. He had blocked him from invading his mind, but there was no way to prevent Schuldig from finding him if he was determined to do so. And he would be upon them in another minute or two.

"Shall I send him on his way?" Crawford asked.

If Schuldig were a mere mortal... But even then, Ran would not have Crawford try. It was best if he was in Crawford's company for a while.

"No. Allow him to accompany me to my lodgings."

"But you would have to walk!" Crawford protested.

"Please don't argue, my lord."

"Then, permit me to collect you at the theater tonight. We shall have that dinner I promised, and no questions about the ring."

"No? But I was under the impression your questions were urgent."

"They can wait." Crawford caught Ran's gaze and held it. "Now I am quite content to string them out from meeting to meeting if that gives me the opportunity to see you frequently."

Ran felt as flustered as he did when he as 16 when Yohji asked him for the first time to accompany him to the spring festival in their town. He quickly called himself sharply to order. "My lord—"

"Ran!" Schuldig was still several paces away, but Ran knew him well to recognize the dangerous note in his usually expressionless voice. "I've been looking for you."

Ran gave Crawford his hand. "Good day, my lord. I thank you for coming to my rescue in Bond Street."

"My pleasure."

All of a sudden, the horses grew restless. Crawford gave a curt nod to Schuldig, who had reached the curricle and stood with his hand imperatively extended to Ran. "One moment, Schuldig, let me steady my pair. Don't know what got into them, they're not usually skittish unless something spooks them."

When Crawford had the grays under control, he once more turned to Ran as he gathered his parasol and hatbox, and murmured, for Ran's ear alone, "One question I would like answered tonight."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Monsieur Fujimiya, what exactly is Schuldig to you?"

* * *

- - - - - - - - 

- - - - - -

**Notes:**

Go Crawford! You're the MAN! Anyone want to tie Schuldig to anywhere right now? I got enchanted rope!

As you've noticed, Ran is treated like a lady because of his status and how he dresses. And as I've sad before, I'm mixing eras in this story.

I used the image of Treize Kushrenada (of GW) as the Fifth Count Crawford since him and Brad since they have an eerie likeness. drools

I mentioned 120 years here, so let's just take that Crawford's grandparents and such lived up to the ripe old age of 90 and so on and so forth. To give you an idea: My great-grandmother was born in the 1880's, my grandmother was born around the 1920's, and my mother was born around the late 1940's and I was born mid 1980's (I stopped counting when I reached 20... Xþ). So that's round about 100 so years... And mind you, during the earlier years, couples, more or less, had at least more than five children. Some of the children died early on since the earlier era's lacked the medical technology and advances we have today. My mother is the youngest of the brood of eight where it was supposed to be originally a brood of thirteen children. Five died in either miscarriage or sickness.

At least that answers some of the questions about the ring. I promise that there will be more mysteries waiting to be unfolded in the following chapters. I have it all mapped out. And I will post a couple of pictures of some gowns that Ran is supposed to wear so you guys would get the feel of what he is wearing. The picture will be posted in my LJ blog, the link to my blog is in my profile.

Feedback/Reviews are very much appreciated. Until then, my darlings! And to those who reviewed, thank you so much!

**Glossary:**

Curricle – a light, open carriage drawn by two horses harnessed side by side.

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